by John Marco
“We are still on the road to Chandakkar,” he began, “and the dread of it is endless. It is hot, and I feel like I am dying. There are hazards here, too. I can hear them at night. We are without allies, and I have never felt so alone. Often, I think of Dyana to pass the time, and I wish she were here to comfort me. She is a good woman, and I miss her.”
Hearing the old words made Richius bristle. He didn’t like being reminded that Dyana had been wedded before, even to someone as beneficent as Tharn.
“So?” he asked sharply. “What’s the point?”
“Let me skip ahead,” said Lucyler. He went on, reading, “Falindar has become precious to me, and I did not realize it until now. I had never thought to love an object so dearly, but it is my home now and I must protect it. I must never let it fall to the Narens, or see it scarred by war. While there is breath in me, I will fight for her.”
Lucyler slowly closed the book and slid it across the desk, almost pushing it over the edge. His eyes flicked up, looking at Richius. There was an awful silence that bespoke his misery. Richius put down the tokka bottle, trying hard to smile.
“You won’t lose Falindar,” he said softly. “If that’s what has you worried, don’t be.”
“Home,” Lucyler whispered. He looked around the room. “Tharn was a prisoner down in the catacombs before ever becoming the citadel’s master. Yet he thought of this as home. I have spent most of my life here, Richius. To me, this really is home. If I lose it …”
“You won’t,” repeated Richius. “But you need some of Tharn’s faith, Lucyler. It isn’t good for you to lock yourself up in here. The others need to see you. If you don’t believe, then they won’t either.”
The Triin reached out for the bottle of liquor, pouring himself a cupful, but he didn’t drink. He merely rolled the cup pensively between his palms, staring at his reflection in its contents. There was a shroud of self-loathing around Lucyler tonight. He had been grim ever since the siege began. Or more precisely, since the fiasco at Kes. Richius took a chair from the corner of the room. Like everything else in the chamber, it was covered with books and assorted papers. He cleared it off, dragged it to the desk, and sat down in front of Lucyler, close enough so that his friend couldn’t ignore him.
“Why are you afraid?” he asked. “Don’t you know we have the advantage?”
Lucyler looked at him sharply. “You are the only one that seems to believe that, Richius.”
“Am I? Praxtin-Tar doesn’t have a roof over his head, or stores of food or water. Hell, he doesn’t even have his catapult anymore. All he has is manpower.”
“Yes, about twice as much as we do,” grumbled Lucyler. “Why do you forget that?”
They were arguing in circles again, and it really wasn’t why Richius had come. He took the cup from Lucyler’s hands and said, “I want you to talk to me. You’re feeling guilty about what’s happened.”
“Really. How perceptive of you.”
“But it’s not your fault.”
Lucyler laughed. “Of course it is. I should have foreseen this. Like a fool I went to Kes, trying to talk peace. I trusted Praxtin-Tar.” He shook his head ruefully. “Lorris and Pris, I am truly stupid. I saw what Praxtin-Tar was like. I saw the madness in his eyes and I ignored it. So please, Richius, do not try to ease my guilt. I like it. It keeps me company.”
Richius picked up Tharn’s journal again. “Didn’t Tharn once tell you that Praxtin-Tar could be trusted? Didn’t he say he would be loyal to you?”
“That was a long time ago,” countered Lucyler, “when Tharn was alive. And he did not know he would be dying, or what Praxtin-Tar would become.”
Richius nodded. They all knew how Tharn’s death had affected the warlord. Once he had merely been a dictator, content with ruling Reen. But Tharn’s magic had changed all that. Seeing Tharn’s powers, his “touch of heaven,” had turned Praxtin-Tar into a true believer. Now he was the holy man’s self-appointed successor, determined to reopen the heavenly door Tharn’s death had closed. Some said Praxtin-Tar wanted power, that he wanted to wield the same arcane abilities as Tharn and take all of Lucel-Lor for himself. But Richius knew better than to believe that. Lucyler had indeed met with Praxtin-Tar in Kes, and he had seen the warlord’s pain. Praxtin-Tar was on a crusade. To him, this was a holy war.
“He wants to know the gods,” said Lucyler. “He wants to see them again, like he did when Tharn was alive. And he will not stop until he takes Falindar, that much I know. We may never defeat him. That is the terror of it. Can you not see, Richius? I cannot lose Falindar. It is a bastion now, the last safe place in Lucel-Lor.”
“That’s a bit dramatic.”
“It is not. This is all that is left of Tharn’s dream. And it is my home.” The Triin’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “It is your home, too.”
The observation made Richius blink. “True,” he admitted. “I am at home here now.”
Lucyler beamed. “Yes. You are happy now, I can tell. You were never happy before.”
“Yes, I was,” Richius insisted. “I’ve always been happy.”
“You have always been a worrisome fishwife,” laughed Lucyler, “carrying on, complaining. Never satisfied with what you have. But you have changed. Tell me, do you think about Aramoor anymore?”
Richius grimaced. “Lucyler …”
“Please,” Lucyler implored. “It is important to me. Are you as contented in Falindar as you seem? Or do you still think about Aramoor? You never talk about it anymore.”
“What’s the point? Aramoor is lost to me. I know that now.”
“Do you?”
“Why the interrogation? I told you the truth, so let’s leave it at that.”
“So this is your home, then?”
“Yes!”
Lucyler sat back. “Then you can see why I am so upset, and why you should be, too. If we lose Falindar, we lose more than just our lives. We lose our homes—again.”
The logic was painfully accurate. Aramoor had been taken from him, and it had taken two years to recover from that loss. He still wasn’t fully mended, but at least he had stilled the unrelenting ghosts of his past. Pining for his homeland had only brought him misery.
“I think about Aramoor more than you know,” Richius confessed. “Sometimes I wish that I could take Shani there, just to see it. It’s part of me, and I guess it will be forever. But this is my home now. I’ve learned that, at least.”
“So we must both fight to protect her,” said Lucyler.
“That’s right. And you have to stop feeling guilty about the siege. Agreed?”
Lucyler took a final drink from his cup. “Agreed.” He capped the tokka bottle, pushing it aside. “So what do we do now? Wait for Praxtin-Tar to come again?”
“That’s all we can do, I think. Eventually he’ll exhaust himself. He has to.”
“That might be a very long wait,” observed Lucyler. “Especially if Crinion dies.”
Richius considered going for the tokka bottle himself. If Crinion did die, Praxtin-Tar’s desire for vengeance would be limitless.
• • •
For Praxtin-Tar, the darkest place in the world was within his private pavilion, standing vigil over his wounded son. It was late, and the candles on the altar flickered in an invisible breeze, throwing grotesque shadows on the fabric walls. Crinion was laid on a bed of blankets stripped to the waist and bandaged. Using his collection of hooked knives, the healer Valtuvus had managed to pull most of the shards of wood from Crinion’s body, and now Crinion’s chest was covered with blood and stitchings. Alone in the tent, Praxtin-Tar knelt in prayer over his only son. Crinion was still unconscious, and Valtuvus doubted he would ever wake up. The healer had told Praxtin-Tar that the young man’s wounds were extensive, and that whatever had hit his head had damaged his brain, perhaps irreparably. Now Crinion lay in a mute sleep, not stirring, barely breathing.
“Lorris, hear me,” the warlord pleaded. “Pris, I beg you. Heal my son. He cannot d
ie …”
As always, Lorris and Pris were silent, and Praxtin-Tar felt frustrated tears squeeze from his eyes. It made no sense that his prayers went unanswered—not now, when so much was clearly at stake. Crinion was a good son, a true Drol, and the twin gods had no right to feign deafness.
“No right,” Praxtin-Tar growled, his eyes opening. He stretched out his arms, balled his hands into fists, and cried out, “Do you hear me? You have no right! I am Praxtin-Tar!”
Praxtin-Tar heard his own name ring in his ears. He slumped. Even Crinion couldn’t hear him, and he was right here next to him, as weak as the day he was born. A crushing loneliness fell upon the warlord. The touch of his wife would have been welcome now, or the laughter of his daughters. Anything but the empty rasping of Crinion’s breath. The day had started off so promisingly. Crinion had been vital and alive, and Rook’s cursed weapon was to have won the battle. The thought of the Naren made Praxtin-Tar seethe.
“It should have been him,” he said.
If Crinion didn’t recover, it would be, he decided. He would kill the Naren if Crinion died, punishing him for building such a shoddy device. Praxtin-Tar’s body shook with rage, and he had to put a hand to his forehead to calm himself. His mind swam with nausea, and he realized that he hadn’t eaten since the dawn. He needed nourishment. But who would look after Crinion? He didn’t really trust Valtuvus, not with something so important. The warlord decided to forego his meal, sitting cross-legged on the floor.
“I will guard you,” he whispered. “The raven will not come.”
He reached out and touched Crinion’s hair. It was bone-white, like all Triin hair, and as silky as rose petals. Being so close to his son, Praxtin-Tar realized how fair he was, and not just because his skin was Triin white, but because his bones were perfect and his face was sculptured. Crinion was handsome, something Praxtin-Tar had never been.
“Do not leave me,” he pleaded. “I cannot lose another son. Do you hear? I cannot bear it.”
Crinion answered with an unconscious flutter of his eyelids, and the warlord wondered if his son could hear him.
“Yes, you can,” he decided. “You will not die.”
More slight stirring. Praxtin-Tar smiled. Crinion was strong, because he had the warlord’s blood and because there was important work to be done. They were both committed, father and son, to seeing Tharn’s legacy continue.
“Such a sight can change a man forever,” he told his son. “Do I know if I am appointed by Lorris to carry on? I do not. But there is so much for me to learn. The gods are real, Crinion. I know that now. And I want to see them again.”
Praxtin-Tar stopped stroking Crinion’s head. He looked around to assure himself no one was listening, then bent forward a little and continued his confession.
This was his rage, his fixation. That it should make him murderous didn’t matter to Praxtin-Tar any longer. He was a warlord, after all. His mission was far more grave than the lives of Lord Ishia or a hundred slaves from Kes. Tharn himself had killed to open the gates of heaven. Perhaps that was the price. Maybe Lorris needed blood to be assuaged.
Fine, then, thought Praxtin-Tar. They will open the gates of heaven to me, or I will force them open.
Falindar couldn’t stand against him forever. And once he had Falindar … What then?
The warlord frowned. Even now, a month into his siege, he didn’t know what to expect from a victory. Falindar had been Tharn’s home. In a sense, it was a conduit to heaven, the long-time seat of Triin power. Sooner or later, Praxtin-Tar supposed, his fickle gods would have to notice him. He had already won Kes for them, though apparently they had turned up their noses at that prize. But surely they couldn’t deny Falindar. With its peerless spires of brass and silver, Falindar was the jewel of Lucel-Lor. Conquering her would be Praxtin-Tar’s greatest achievement, and when he won her, he would dare the gods to ignore him.
“Someday, Crinion,” he vowed.
“Master?” came a voice.
Praxtin-Tar sat up at the intrusion. To his huge surprise he saw Rook standing in the threshold of his tent. The Naren’s expression was white and fearful.
“You come here?” spat Praxtin-Tar. “You dare disgrace this place with your presence?”
Rook stepped into the pavilion, holding up his hands. “Forgive me, Master. I only came to check on you.” His eyes flicked nervously to where Crinion lay. “How fares your son?”
“No thanks to you, he lives. Be glad for it. If he dies, you will follow him.”
“I swear to you, Master, I had no idea this would happen.”
“You made the weapon. You said it was ready. So you will pay if my son dies. I have been sitting here thinking of ways to kill you. Would you like to hear some of my ideas?”
The Naren was ashen.
“I am thinking of impaling you,” Praxtin-Tar continued. “Maybe lowering you onto a stake very slowly, and watching while the other side comes out your mouth.”
“My God …”
“Your God?” Praxtin-Tar erupted. “Your Naren fable does not exist! Do not speak of him to me.”
“Forgive me, Master. I meant no disrespect. Only …”
“What?”
“Well, if the boy lives—”
“He will live!”
“Of course,” Rook corrected hastily. “Rather, when he is well again, he will look to you for guidance. He will expect to be avenged for what has happened to him.” The Naren swallowed nervously. “He will want to kill me.”
Praxtin-Tar could barely contain his disgust. “You have come to seek my protection? While my son lies dying? Filthy, filthy creature …”
“Master, I had nothing to do with this! I only did as you asked. I did my best to build the weapon, but I am not an engineer. I am only a soldier.”
“You are only a slave, Rook,” retorted the warlord. He stood up, towering over the Naren. “I have made my decision. You should pray to your nonexistent God for Crinion’s recovery, because if he dies, I will put you to the stake.”
“And if he lives? What happens to me then?”
“He will want his revenge,” the warlord agreed. “But not on you.”
“I don’t understand.”
Praxtin-Tar pointed in the direction of the citadel. “He will want to take Falindar. That will be the only way to amend this disgrace. And for that I need you.” The warlord turned away from Rook and stood over his son. Crinion hadn’t moved a muscle since those first tentative stirrings, and Valtuvus had warned that infection might set in. Out here in the middle of nowhere, infection could swat a man like an insect.
“I will not let him die,” vowed Praxtin-Tar. “Crinion will live, and when he awakens we will take Falindar.”
“And you need me for that?” asked Rook hopefully.
“Indeed.” The warlord regarded him coldly. “You are going to build me another weapon.”
“Oh, no, Master,” Rook said. “That is not possible …”
“I saw what it can do. You will build it, and build it better than the last one. You will build it while Crinion recovers, so that it will be ready when he awakens for battle.”
“Master, please,” begged the Naren. “I cannot do this. The last trebuchet was my best effort. I used all my knowledge. It failed because I don’t know what I’m doing!” Praxtin-Tar waved off his pleas. Two years ago, he had spared Rook’s life because it had amused him to have a Naren slave, and because Rook had promised he would be useful. He had knowledge of Naren weapons, he had claimed.
“You were a legionnaire,” flared the warlord. “You told me you could help me win battles.”
“Yes,” Rook sputtered. “But …”
“Build me another trebuchet. Make it sound and powerful, and have it ready when my son recovers. Remember the stake, Rook.”
Rook took one final look at Crinion, then offered his master a bow before retreating from the tent. Praxtin-Tar was glad to see him go. He was a disgusting creature, like all Narens, and his de
votion to their false religion sickened the warlord. When would the world beyond the mountains realize the truth? Or would they always walk in darkness?
But then he realized that Rook was only a man, and that men had to search the darkness for the truth. Rook was pathetic, certainly. One could, however, learn something from the slave.
“I am walking in darkness, too,” Praxtin-Tar whispered. “Always searching …”
Looking for answers had become a way of life for Praxtin-Tar. Sometimes it was wearying. The warlord of Reen sat down beside his son, ignoring his hunger, and once again began to pray.
EIGHTEEN
When Alazrian and Jahl Rob finally emerged from the Iron Mountains, the first thing they saw was Ackle-Nye. The city of beggars stood at the end of the Saccenne Run, a burned-out husk of a metropolis, bearing the scars of war and neglect. Once she had been an impressive city, a hub of commerce and the gateway to Lucel-Lor, the first stop for soldiers and merchants from the Empire. She had been constructed years ago during the early reign of Arkus, designed in part by Naren engineers eager to make their mark on Triin land. With her ruined arches and collapsed roofs, Ackle-Nye looked like the casualty of a great urban war. Yet even in ruins she was impressive. Alazrian had read about Ackle-Nye and had heard his Uncle Blackwood Gayle speak of her, but nothing had prepared him for this sight. As his horse emerged from the confines of the mountain pass, his eyes widened in astonishment, beholding the forbidding beauty of the dead city.
“God in heaven,” breathed Jahl Rob. He brought his exhausted mount to a stop. “Will you look at that?”
There in the terminus of the Saccenne Run the two travellers paused, surveying the twisted city in the distance. Ackle-Nye was a weird amalgamation of familiar architecture and arcane design. Informal Triin structures of tattered paper and wood stood abreast of conical Naren spires, all crumbling, and half the city was encased in a wall lined with defensive crenellations. It was mid-afternoon and the sun baked the landscape. The shadows of the Iron Mountains seemed to reach for the broken city with dark hands. The strange marriage of Naren and Triin carried over to every small detail. Alazrian didn’t know how to react. He was glad to be out of the run, but the city of beggars didn’t precisely welcome them, either.
